


Haight-Ashbury

by PyromaniacLullaby



Category: Original Work
Genre: Blood and Gore, Drug Use, Gen, Hippies, Original Fiction, Sadism, Serial Killers, Summer of Love (1967)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:00:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21654892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PyromaniacLullaby/pseuds/PyromaniacLullaby
Summary: The hippies converged on Haight-Ashbury in the summer. Descending from their pedestrian lives as mundane students to celebrate the new era of peace and love and drugs. They littered the parks, forming packs and communities that frightened ‘narcs’, the older residents and authorities.Never trust anyone over the age of thirty. Fuck capitalism. Screw the facist pigs that rule this country from on high.Many of them were runaways from their families. None of them trusted the authorities. The police neither cared nor monitored them. They had no records, no support network besides each other, no power. And they littered the street like ripe flies swarming the rotting carcass of American society.It was her wildest dream come true. No one to look for them. No one to care for them. More than half of them high out of their mind, tripping balls so dangerously that it was hard to tell whether the blurry figure that spirited their friends away was a true spirit or simply a bloodthirsty human.Therefore, she set about the task of killing them, for her own pleasure.
Kudos: 3





	Haight-Ashbury

San Francisco, 1967  
The hippies converged on Haight-Ashbury in the summer. Descending from their pedestrian lives as mundane students to celebrate the new era of peace and love and drugs. They littered the parks, forming packs and communities that frightened ‘narcs’, the older residents and authorities.  
Never trust anyone over the age of thirty. Fuck capitalism. Screw the fascist pigs that rule this country from on high.  
Many of them were runaways from their families. None of them trusted the authorities. The police neither cared nor monitored them. They had no records, no support network besides each other, no power. And they littered the street like ripe flies swarming the rotting carcass of American society.  
It was her wildest dream come true. No one to look for them. No one to care for them. More than half of them high out of their mind, tripping balls so dangerously that it was hard to tell whether the blurry figure that spirited their friends away was a true spirit or simply a bloodthirsty human.  
She worked on the coffee shop on Haight Street, across from Buena Vista Park, in the epicenter of the hippie craze. The owner of the shop could hardly complain— he was making mad bank off of the recent wave of visitors. He didn’t quite understand the social revolution aspect of the hippie movement. But he did oppose the Vietnam War. He was a veteran of the war, had seen his friends die one by one, and disproved of the senseless slaughter. All in all, he was about as hip as any old man could get.  
She was twenty three. On the older side of the kids that flocked to the parks, but definitely not enough to attract attention in a crowd. She dressed like them. In long, flowy dresses with fringe and flower hairpieces. She didn’t have to dress like them, but she did. It was easier.

“Want some acid, sister?” The slender man wore a fringe jacket with shaggy sandy blonde hair and sunglasses.  
She smiled at him. “Does a bear shit in the park? Hand it over, man.” She took a paper square from the hippie.  
She quite enjoyed hanging out with the Flower Children, as they called themselves. Some of them knew her by name, recognized her from the coffee shop, or simply blindly welcomed her as a fellow sister. It was free drugs and love as far as the eye could see, especially if people thought you were pretty.  
The only thing she couldn’t stand was the singing. The tuneless singing around campfires, shaggy-haired boys with too much confidence strumming repetitive chords on cheap instruments. It wasn’t really the singing though. It was off-key and, even she would admit, the soft hippie vibe wasn’t her preferred music genre. But no. It was the goddamn optimism in the air. It spoiled everything, like rancid meat. She just couldn’t buy into it.  
She didn’t get the whole Vietnam pushback either. She certainly didn’t support the war. No, it was ridiculous. A waste of resources and time. From everything she learned in school, she couldn’t even understand why it had been started. Some petty dick-measuring contest with Russia, she supposed. No. It seemed to her that the glorious Country of Freedom figured they’d gotten good enough at oppressing their own people and decided to try their hand at making some far-off Asian country miserable as well. That kind of talk helped her blend into the crowd well enough. Got her through enough pretentious, decidedly one-sided rants about the war. She just couldn’t bring herself to care about politics. Death, she thought, happened to everyone. And beyond that, she was a girl. The war wasn’t going to happen to her.  
But the others cared. “Doesn’t it make your heart bleed?” they whined. “Doesn’t it just make you mad?” It was enough to make her want to make their hearts bleed, just to get them to shut up.  
Still… The acid was great. Which brought her here, smoking acid with a stranger.  
But these weren’t the thoughts occupying her mind. In some ways, she wished they were. She stared out over a crowd of kids— dumb, unchecked, unregistered, distrustful of the police that tried to chase them out of their new commune— all she could think about was how easy it would be. She could get away with the thing that she’d been dreaming about for years.  
The crowd seemed to stream around her, a blur of ever-shifting colors and shapes. Red and brown and yellow and green.  
“Hey, is this seat taken?” A new kid sidled up to her. She sat on the edges of a campfire, watching a group of kids, including the man who’d handed her the drugs, laughing and talking. Two of them were making out, lost in their own world.  
She forced a smile onto her face, leaning back onto her hands as she nodded to him. “Yeah, feel free. It’s the people’s campfire, man. What’s mine is yours.” Sometimes her approximation of the hippies language reached the level of parody. It was a fun game, seeing how much she could get away with. Nobody seemed to notice, more often than not.  
The boy had short hair for a hippie, brown and soft, like feathers. His eyes were liquid syrup. He seemed young too, maybe eighteen or seventeen. His right ear was pierced with a blue, feathered earring.  
The earring made her genuinely smile. It was pretty. The deepest blue she’d ever seen.  
She was starting to feel good. She reached out to touch his earring. The soft, tickly sensation brushed across her fingertips. “You’re like a bluejay,” she told him softly.  
He grinned back on her, gently placing her hand back on the ground. “Yeah, you’re definitely on something. Can I have some?”  
She nodded. She pointed to the blonde man in the fringe jacket. “Yeah, just ask him. If he doesn’t want to, just tell him that the coffee lady sent you.”  
The boy stood back up. The night was loud, his words lost in the hubbub surrounding the campfire. She watched as he approached the blonde man in fringe, talked to him, and grinned as drugs were handed off.  
“He’s extremely attractive,” she thought. She cocked her head. It felt like her entire system was bombarded with endorphins and serotonin. The grass felt soft, springy, maybe scratchy on her palms. It felt like the world beyond tonight did not matter.  
“I am going to kill that boy,” she thought.  
Sometimes, it is funny how easily ones mind can be made up. That’s the funny thing about snap decisions, about any judgement or choice. Some people seem to think that killing takes thought, time, effort, deliberation— and yeah, it does require those things, if you want to get away with murder— but they’re also wrong. All killing takes is conviction. Once you’ve decided to kill, you will. A single drop of acid, lower the inhibitions even by the smallest fraction…  
The boy came back. He sat next to her. “Thanks for hooking me up,” he said, grinning at her.  
She smiled back. She was feeling generous. “No problem, man.” She looked him up and down. “So, hey… Do you have a name?”  
The corners of his mouth twisted upward. He grinned. “Um, well, my friends call me Feather. On account of the earring, you see.” He pointed to his ear. He leaned in closer. His eyes stared at her like they were piercing her body. He was flirting. Thank god that he was flirting. “What about you? You can’t just be the coffee lady, y’know.”  
She shrugged. “‘Fraid I am. I work at a coffee shop, day job and all that. That’s where most people know me from… Doesn’t help anyone to know my real name. But, if you really like, you can call me Coffee.”  
His liquid eyes sparkled. She imagined them gutted, two empty and squishy holes staring sightlessly at the universe. “Suits you. Cuz of your hair.” He pointed, in case she had forgotten where her hair was or what it looked like.  
“Yeah, I guess so.” She tugged on a strand of her hair. It was soft, like silk. The image of blood still soaked her mind, nudging a lazy smile onto her face, feeling caught in a dream.  
“Do you live in town then?” he asked. “Since you have an actual job, I’m going to assume you aren’t just a random straggler.”  
She perked up. “Yeah, I have an apartment. I’ve been around here all my life, before any of the Flower Children started to move in.”  
He seemed to genuinely startle. “Wow, living your whole life here. That sounds outta sight. I grew up in some nowhere town, around some nobody people. You are so lucky to live in such a hopping place. I want to settle down here.” He glanced around at the gathering. “The people are great, the city is great. Even when all of this blows over, I’m going to stay.”  
The stark blue of the slowly swaying feather just seemed to get her.  
She pushed up off her hands and cocked her head at the boy, not noticing how close she was getting. Her face was inches away from his. She put her hand on his arm. It was soft, slightly chaffed. “Hey, do you want to come and visit my place?”  
He kissed her. It was nice. His lips were chapped, tasted like smoke.  
Bright, bursting, like a sunbeam. Acidic copper danced on her tongue, flitting, scampering over her taste buds. Blood.  
It faded.  
She pulled away from him, her expression hazy and hungry. “Is that a yes?”  
He nodded. He seemed surprised, she thought, like he half expected her to run away.  
She took him by his hand, leading him through the crowd, ducking and weaving.  
The people around her, all caught up in their own worlds, blind to the woman darting through their crowd. Blind to the fact that they were bleeding— yes, bleeding from tiny cuts all over their bodies. She stared at them, dumbfoundedly. Didn’t they know? How could they not realize that they were bleeding for her?  
“Hey, you okay?” Feather asked.  
She turned back to him. She didn’t want to wait. Everyone else was dead anyway, just as they deserved to be. It took every ounce of her common sense to repress her instincts. “Yeah, I’m fine,” she managed. “The world is filled with such lovely visions, my little bluejay. Come on, my apartment is this way.”  
She broke through the crowd, tumbling onto the sidewalk. She grabbed onto his arm again, slowing down to a regular pace. “You want to stay here, in the city? Don’t you have somewhere else to be, Feather? Family to be with?”  
He seemed to lean on her slightly, as if taking comfort from her embrace, though perhaps it was the other way around. “No. Well, yes, but I decided to get away. I want to be on my own for a little while, just a little while. I need to discover who I am, y’know? Then maybe I’ll go to college or something, like my old folk want me to.”  
“How lovely,” she whispered into his ear. “How absolutely fantastic.”  
They talked about nothing. Or rather she let him talk at her, while imagining his face bathed in blood, and she nodded in the right places.  
Her apartment was small, the outside painted a faded red. It was a three story flat, squashed like a sardine by two identical-looking houses on either side, palette swapped for diversity. Quite technically, she had two other roommates, though their paths never crossed. Never-at-home landlord on the first floor and cat-crazed something or other on the third.  
She ushered her new friend onto the fire escape, leaping up and glancing back down. Feather stared up at her, slightly agog and hesitating. She sighed and offered her hand to help him up. Waking up the first flight of stairs, she came to her apartment and jiggled the window open.  
“Do you always come by the fire escape?” asked Feather.  
She shrugged. “Sometimes. When I want to be alone.” She climbed in through the window and held it open for Feather. “Or when I’m trying to avoid paying rent,” she added humorously.  
To his credit, Feather laughed, even though it wasn’t a particularly funny joke. He followed her inside.  
Everything was small. It had to be, since that was the only way she could afford to live here, even though Mr. Nakashima was generous with her salary. In reality, her apartment was just one room, a bed and a small bathroom in the back. A hot plate sat on top of a small, sturdy box the corner for cooking. A dresser was pushed up against the far wall, opposite the bed. A small table next to the bed, wedged between the bed and the wall on the side opposite to the bathroom. There wasn’t much of a personal touch to the decoration. Everything felt old and worn, but well cared for and clean. The bed wasn’t made, a magazine draped over the bedside table, covered by a titleless book with a brown cover. But the room was compact and compartmentalized. There weren’t any kitschy bead curtains, pictures, or even games.  
Feather raised an eyebrow. “Wow, it’s... homey.”  
The woman glanced around, shrugging. “I guess. It’s my place though. I’m lucky to have it.” Her eyes fell upon the bedside table and she startled suddenly. “Ah, whoops.” She darted forward, snatching up the magazine and stuffing it into the table. Feather caught a brief glimpse of skin and his cheeks went red.  
“Was that…?” he asked.  
The woman finally remembered her manners. She gave a small chuckle and managed to look embarrassed, a light blush rising in her cheeks. “Yeah, sorry. Not the sort of thing you’re supposed to leave laying around.”  
Feather flushed bright red. “Er, right! I didn’t think girls- I mean- I-”  
The woman rolled her eyes and sat down on the bed. “Come on, haven’t you heard, it’s the sexual revolution.” She stared at him critically. “You really are from a nowhere town, huh?” She gestured behind her and smiled softly. “Come on, lay down. It’s all right. I want to try something with you. It’s supposed to be amazing, on LSD.” Her heart was pounding, the euphoria of the drugs kicking in, full effect.  
Feather laid down on the bed, propping himself up slightly on his elbows. The woman rifled through her dresser. Cold metal stung her skin, clinking quietly. She pulled out handcuffs.  
Feather looked confused as she climbed onto the bed and grabbed his hands. "Hey, wait a second," he began to protest. He pulled his hands away. She ignored his resistance, forcing them back in front of him and clamping the handcuffs on— too tightly.  
"What is this?" Feather asked, confusion and animal fear beginning to creep into his voice. He tried to pull his hands apart and was rewarded with a sharp sting of pain.  
The woman smiled. "It's what I wanted to show you."  
"No, no." Feather tried to sit up and failed, finding nothing to support himself and the woman's weight pressing down uncomfortably on his legs. "It hurts. I don't know who told you this was a good idea, but I'd like to get out now. Can you please let me out?"  
He was cute, struggling, confused, and she swore that his fear was a tangible force of nature. Every sensation felt heightened. His actions were under a microscope, each twitch set off a cascade of euphoria. The colors were brighter, the bed softer, the metal harder…  
The woman nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, just let me get the key. Just sit tight." She climbed off Feather and walked back to the dresser. Her back turned, obscuring Feather's view.  
Humming to herself, she found the duct tape and a length of rope. The truth was that she had set all these objects aside, preparing for this moment. Fantasies don't just materialize out of thin air, after all.  
Quietly, she tore a long piece of sticky duct tape, slyly pocketed the remaining rope and duct tape in her pocket. She hid the hand with the torn piece in her pocket. The key, at the bottom of the drawer, clattered softly as she shut the drawer.  
She turned. "All right, hold out your hands." Feather complied, nervously.  
The woman climbed back onto the bed, from the side, close to Feather's head and torso.  
His brown, liquid eyes stared at her. Filled with more confusion than fear, but they held budding fear. She wanted to make it grow into a beautiful flower. He had trusted her. He didn't want to be wrong now, maybe didn't think he could be wrong, and she wanted to kill him. She wanted to kill him so bad.  
So she did.  
Her hand snaked out of her pocket, over his mouth. She applied the duct tape. He tried to scream, to shove her away, but she didn't let him. She straddled his chest, forced his arms up, grabbing the rope and looping it around the chain. Feather was screaming and screaming, the sound muffled by the tape. The woman's heart fluttered in delight as she tied the rope to the bedpost, above Feather's head.  
He was kicking too, throwing his body back and forth in an attempt to break free. The chain rattled as he struggled against the bedpost. The wonan flipped around, grabbing the duct tape and swaddling his legs, forcing them together and binding them with multiple layers. His restricted movement limited what he could do to escape. Still screaming, he bucked under the woman, trying to break free. He bonds held.  
The woman climbed off of Feather's torso, kneeling on the bed next to him. She drank in the sight of his fear, his muffled screaming, his struggling body. Red welts were already beginning to form where the cuffs met his wrists.  
It seemed like a dream, but it wasn't. It was real. The bed laid solidly under her, firmly supplanted in reality, his struggle rocked the bed slightly and it creaked under the strain, every sensation was heightened.  
The woman grabbed Feather by the hair, abandoning any pretext of gentleness.She wrapped duct tape around his mouth and head, muffling his protests even further and mussing up his hair with the sticky substance.  
"Why?" His eyes seemed to scream. They were deep chocolate, growing misty with the beginnings of tears. "Why is this happening? What is happening? What are you going to do with me?"  
She leaned back again, admiring her work. "There we are," she said. "Finally. I think you look boss, Feather— no, my little bluejay." She leaned down nuzzling his chest and breathing his smell. "I am so nervous. I can't tell you how happy I am to finally be doing this. I'm so glad. I've got butterflies in my stomach! Thank you, Feather. I mean it. Thank you." He calmed down a little, perhaps frozen with fear. His struggles bore no fruit.  
She sat up and slid off the bed, padding to the nook with the hot plate. She moved it, opened the box. Her hand closed around a cold, hard knife handle. She pulled it out, playing with the sharp, shiny edge as she turned around. Feather exploded with a renewed fervor, screaming and pulling at his bonds, now for his life. He started crying, hot tears falling down his face.  
The woman laughed, padding closer to the bed. "Oh yes, just like that. Please struggle and scream just like that, I'm so close." She hopped onto the bed and kneeled next to him, looming over Feather. He tried to touch her, headbutt her, kick her, anything, but she was just out of reach. "I'm going to kill you," she told him, her voice breathless and cruel. "There's nothing you can do about it. Come on, struggle a bit more. Cry and scream. Bleed." Her heart was pounding out of her chest. Colors were beginning to dance in her vision. The knife handle was smooth, cold against her skin. She didn't know which would happen first— would her heart beat out of her chest or melt into a gooey puddle?  
She lifted the waistband of his shirt and cut away his clothes, until he lay naked, his pale skin exposed.  
He whimpered and screamed and tried to squirm away, but there was nothing he could do.  
She ran her hand along his skin, relishing in the soft squishiness of his chest, covered in fine hair. She lifted her eyes to his face. Another overload of endorphins hit her system at the sight of his teary face, sobbing and watching her like a frightened little bird, caught in the trap of a predator.  
She shifted forward and kissed his forehead tenderly. He tried to buck away from her touch, repulsed. That made her laugh. She teased him, putting the sharp and cold edge of the knife against his breast. "You tried so hard to come home with me… You really are mine now, my little bluejay. This is going to feel amazing."  
Her knife pressed against his supple flesh. She increased the pressure of the knife, slicing upward, fascinated by her power. A shallow line of blood welled from the cut across his chest. He screamed and jerked, thrashing wildly, tears flowing down his face in frustration. His expression was filled with pain and tears. Power and euphoria flooded her system.  
Pressing her fingers into the wound, irritating the red and wounded area, sending a new spasm of pain through his face. His blue, uneven earring contrasted beautifully with the vibrant red flowing down his pale chest.  
She raised her knife again, deeper this time. She cut into his arm, deep enough to cut into his fat. It glimmered yellow and marbled for a brief second before blood obscured the exposed layer of fat. It dripped down, off his arm and onto the bed. Vibrant, deep, maroon, like a delicate rose.  
She cut into him again and again. Got up at some point for salt to rub in the wounds. She relished the expressions on his face, the vibrant and deep color of the blood, the pure and unspoiled beauty of her marks.  
He screamed. He struggled against death. No one heard him.  
It was hard to tell at which point he went limp for good, not just due to dissociation, but from blood loss. She kept cutting, the blood spilling all over her, her hands, her face, her torso, her legs.  
At some point her cuts stopped producing blood. Many hours later. She kissed Feather one last time on the forehead and drifted off to sleep next to him.


End file.
